


when duty calls

by beatrixfranklin



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26222038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatrixfranklin/pseuds/beatrixfranklin
Summary: sometimes the nonnatuns duties overlap their own lives in the most challenging of ways.
Relationships: Lucille Anderson/Valerie Dyer
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

Trixie enters the office, as she always does, with no second thought. Sister Julienne stands behind her desk, her slender hands gripping the back of the humble chair. The aging nun's face all but blends into her wimple, a slight tremor in her body.

"Sister? Is everything alright? Do you need Doctor?" Trixie's face is a painted canvas of concern. It's no secret Sister Julienne is ever growing in years and her selfless nature makes her reluctant to ask for help, even when it is needed most. She shakes her head. Summons Trixie in, tells her to close the door.

"I've had a telephone call." She gestures blindly at the phone. Trixie nods.

"We are needed to identify a body." The words are forced, the nun struggling to choke them out. They're barely audible but in the ominous silence of the office it would be hard to miss them even still. 

"A body?" Trixie asks, stepping closer to the desk. She almost regrets asking. The look on Sister Julienne's face says it all. Trixie's hand flies to her mouth as she shakes her head. 

"How? When? No-" Coherent thoughts aren't present. The words coming out are garbled and panicked. Trixie pauses, taking a breath.

"I'll come." She says after a still moment. She watches as Sister Julienne thinks for a moment.

"Lucille can't see. She can't know anything until we do." Trixie's arms fold, gripping onto her upper arms, a grounding mechanism she often falls back onto. Sister Julienne nods. 

"That would be wise, Nurse Franklin."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw// death, identifying a body (nothing graphic)

Sister Frances has 4 bob slipped into her palm, is told to keep Lucille at bay with a 99 and a summer afternoon walk. If anyone is to ask, the 2 midwives and the nun are out on business at the surgery.

Her remaining happiness needs framing, keeping intact. What lies ahead is something nobody needs, or wants, to address before it is necessary. 

The drive to the mortuary is aching. On the outskirts of the city, it is a slightly longer drive than to the London but with the atmosphere time slows to almost a standstill. 

Sister Julienne's hand lies tucked into Trixie's own, the two women offering what little comfort can be shared. Phyllis' eyes dart in the mirror occasionally, keeping tabs on the women sitting behind her. 

Neither look into the car, simply observing the passing city outside, not a word spoken, the radio silenced. Phyllis drives.

~  
Despite all three of their shared years in similar, clinical enviroments, neither of the women are quite used to the setting. Their work shoes squeak at the scrubbed tile as the officer leads them through neon lit corridors that never seem to end. Trixie pulls her cape tighter, reaching to fasten a button that is already tightly closed. She shivers. Their pace slows.

~  
The room holds nothing but a metal table. Atop it is a white covered bundle, one that even at the sight, after all their experiences with the end of life, the women shudder at. 

Either the figure beneath is a stranger, a life lost that Sister Julienne will whisper a prayer to later that night, for a soul nobody seems to miss.

The other option is much, much more devastating. 

"Whenever you are ready." The officer announces, joined by a stern, sharp looking woman in a sickly sterile white coat. Sister Julienne nods. Her hand is laced with Trixie's again, a maternal gesture she doesn't often share. Trixie's other finds Phyllis', the older woman wrapping Trixie's dainty hand in both of her warm, well worn own. 

Sister Julienne makes eye contact with the woman in the white coat. She nods, gently, reluctantly, but she does all the same. 

The sheet is pulled back, gripped gently in experienced hands.

Trixie gasps. She knows she's in uniform, knows her composure is important while in the blue dress, is well aware the burgundy hat means she's under scrutiny. She doesn't care.

Phyllis pulls her in tightly, placing a gentle hand on the back of her head. Trixie never lets go of the older nuns hand, giving it a squeeze as she cries silently into Phyllis' chest, dark grey patches forming on the woman's cape.

"It's her." 

Sister Julienne chokes out the two, simple words after a few moments. She takes her hand from Trixie, softly, clasping her own together. She holds them to her chest, over the humble wooden cross she is never seen without. Phyllis watches, still soothing the young midwife sobbing in her arms, observing Sister Julienne's whispered prayer.

For a moment, she almost wishes she believed too. Wishes that there is someone to hear.


	3. Chapter 3

Sister Julienne is used to grief in her line of work. Even so, the burden isn't lifted any each time she has to inform someone of their loved one's passing.

Especially when it's her newest employed midwife, the one with the sweetest, kindest brown eyes.

Lucille comes home, linked arm in arm with the youngest nun, ice cream fresh on her tastebuds and the summer air filling her lungs. 

They know what must be done. They can't avoid it anymore. They can't distract her with ice cream and smiles. She has to know.

Her face falls immediately. A natural empath, she feels everyone's emotions even when she probably shouldn't.

They take her into the kitchen, set her about with a cup of tea and one of the biscuits Sister Monica Joan stashes away for herself. Although the elderly nun doesn't begrudge it. She can't. 

Then it's said. It's out there.

She denies it. 

"No, she can't be! She went to Paris, she hasn't been in Poplar for months!" 

Lucille's words are adamant and feisty but the way her eyes dart between the women give her away immediately. She knows its true. They wouldn't lie to her. Not when they've done so much to protect her.

She cracks.

The tears fall before Trixie can hand her a lace-edged handkerchief. Trixie shifts closer, a hand on Lucille's back, trying to offer some warmth, some comfort. She's distraught, imaginably so, but only Trixie knows the truth.

To Sister Julienne, and perhaps Phyllis, although the oldest midwife notoriously knows every deep and dark secret, Lucille mourns a friend. The first woman to greet her at Nonnatus, during the bitter and cruel blizzard that saw her lose a pair of thick wool stockings to the gravel paths. A friend that supported her, helped her branch out to find a gentleman friend as she found her feet.

Trixie knows better. Trixie has awoken, more times than she can count, to two bodies in the bed beside instead of one. She's seen forehead kisses, hands tucked gently into each other, heard soft whispers and sweet nothings. She know Lucille is mourning a lost love. A forbidden one, at that.

Lucille asks to move with Trixie. It's for a selfish reason, of course. There she will be surrounded with Val's scent, the comforter unwashed since the tall woman left, her perfume lingering. She only hopes she doesn't marr the air with her own scent. Val needs to stay.

She also thinks of Trixie. The blonde doesn't do well on her own and she doesn't do well with loss. The simple implications are enough for Lucille to choke out her question. 

It's a yes, of course it is. Trixie wraps her in a tight hug, as though she is trying to squeeze the shattered pieces back together. In the fleeting, warm moment, Lucille thinks it may just be working. If only a little.

~  
The next few days pass by in a blur. Lucille feels as though she is on pause or at the very least slow motion. Her heart feels hollow and empty and she's lucky to gulp down dry toast and black tea. 

She feels selfish. She's wasting her days, even if it is only a few while her head straightens back up. She's in the way, or at least she feels it. Everyone goes back to normal, more or less. Valerie's funeral plans are in full swing, left to Sister Julienne and the few remaining family members that allow themselves to be associated with Val.

She hears Trixie crying almost every night. It's not uncommon for Lucille to slide in beside her as she sobs, both women holding on tight to each other. She finds that there's room for her now, she doesn't have to awkwardly squeeze. Trixie knows she needs it, but perhaps that's because she needs it almost as much. Trixie knows what it is to lose someone you are only permitted to love in secret. 

~  
Val's funeral arrives almost too soon. Lucille is in black, but she feels wrong. Val never wore black, unless she absolutely had to. Even for Elsie's, she was adorned in a deep, subtle plum, her gran's favourite colour, as she would have wished. 

If Valerie were here, she'd say

"All black, Lu? Really?" 

But Valerie's not here.

Lucille adjusts her collar, her eyes drifting in the mirror. Atop Val's nightstand is the potted violet Lucille bought her long ago. In her grief, it has found itself neglected, yet still on it thrives. Lucille takes one flower, holding it gently at the stem and plucking it. She takes a hat pin, pinning it firmly to her lapel.

"That's better! Purple always was your colour, chick." 

She smiles in the mirror. A deep breathe. Do it for her, Lu. 

~

Trixie's hand barely leaves Lucille's the entire service. Once, perhaps, when the blonde stands to speak. Articulate and graceful, Trixie's words flow and captivate everyone, despite her wobbling tone. She returns to her seat. Lucille's next.

"Valerie-" She's one word in and already her chest feels tighter than it ever has. Setting sail from the only home she's ever known, to work in a country she couldn't even point out on a map, didn't scare her even half as much as she's scared now.

"Valerie is the type of person you meet once in a lifetime, and never again. She's special. There's nothing she wouldn't do for you, no matter if it is perhaps something that would get her into mischief." Lucille cracks a smile. She's talking in present tense, as though Valerie is still here. The sun filters through the window, hitting the empty seat Lucille has left beside Trixie. 

She is here. 

Lucille follows the gathering out into the churchyard. Her chest is still tight, but with every step it eases. The sun is still shining, hot and soothing, not a cloud in sight. 

She waits until the mourners have dispersed. 

"Thanks for the sunshine precious," she says, looking upwards, her gloved hands clasped tightly over her chest. 

Val's plot is opposite.

She takes careful steps.

Unpins the violet. 

The stem is poked into the freshly turned earth.

Lucille kisses her hand before laying it gently on the temporary, shabby cross. 

There's hands on her shoulders.

"They're neighbours, see?" 

Trixie's right. Barbara lies in the next plot over. The blonde kneels beside Lucille, an arm wrapped around her shoulder.

"It gets easier, sweetie." 

Lucille lets herself believe it.


End file.
